


Filling the Void

by eratospen



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Belly Kink, Fenris is truly fat by the end, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-12-18 11:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11873361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratospen/pseuds/eratospen
Summary: For a kink meme prompt: Post Inquisition male Hawke and Fenris. Fenris hears Hawke was left in the Veil and turns to eating for comfort. It turns out our ever-resourceful Hawke found his way out after quite a bit of time and makes his way home to find a much (much, MUCH) fatter Fenris waiting for him.Warning: This is a Dragon Age male weight gain / belly kink story. If that doesn't sound like your thing...it probably isn't.





	1. Chapter 1

He was carving a bloody swath across the Free Marches when Varric’s letter reached him.

“Sirrah,” the courier said, bowing from a safe distance away. The last of the Tevinter slavers thudded softly to the red-drenched rock, and Fenris looked up with an indifferent snarl. Adrenaline still pumped through his veins, the blue-white flicker of his lyrium only just beginning to soften, and he couldn’t help but feel a flash of irritation at having his sport interrupted.

The courier bowed again, sealed letter between his fingertips. He wore the Inquisition’s uniform, but it was Varric’s seal that caught Fenris’s eye.

Ah. Well. That was all right then.

“Give that to me,” Fenris said, wiping down his blade before strapping it to his back. He reached out a hand, already dismissing the man with a flick of his lashes when the letter was handed over. Varric was an infrequent penpal (no doubt largely due to the fact that Fenris was still a fairly novice reader), but it wasn’t unlike him to send the occasional bit of news.

He broke the seal as he picked his way across the rocks down toward his camp far below, idly skipping to the end to avoid the inane pleasantries and gossip Varric liked to pack into each letter.

Fenris froze before he reached the second paragraph.

The whole world went still.

For once, there was no idle gossip, no stories about people he didn’t know or care to meet. No, this time, the letter was short, Varric’s slashing script nearly illegible—quivering between his fingertips. The words swam across the page, forming nonsense sentences that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, bring himself to understand. Only a few lines stood out as if pricked in blood.

_…ventured into the Fade…_

_…forced to leave him behind…_

_…presumed dead…_

He curled his hand into an unthinking fist, the parchment crinkling between his fingers. His heart pounded in his chest, and he could hear the rush of blood in his ears, could hear the screaming denial in his head, could hear— Could hear—

What?

Not Hawke; maybe never again.

“Venhedis,” he swore, turning away from his camp. There was nothing there he needed anyway—a bedroll, dried rations, a little bit of coin. He could scrounge what he needed on the road, because he had to be moving _now_. He had to…to… _run_ , falling into a loping sprint as if he could race all the way up the Frostbacks to Skyhold and shake the truth from the damn dwarf’s mouth.

His fingers curled tighter around the letter, greatsword rattling against his spiked black armor in time with his scattering thoughts: _No_ , and _it is not true_ , and perhaps most of all: _Ah, Maker, Hawke._


	2. Chapter 2

There was no telling what the Inquisition soldiers saw when he finally dragged himself—half-starved, little more than skin and bones and burning eyes—across the arching bridge to the gates.

There was even less telling what Fenris would have done if they’d tried to bar his way. He felt like a wild thing, thoughts still rattling about inside his brain, every last bit of his strength focused on finding Varric, wringing the truth from him, proving that this was all some sick lie.

“… _Tethras_ …” he managed from a voice that had worn thin from dehydration and disuse.

“Ah. What is your business, sirrah?” the braver of the two guards managed—but thankfully for all involved, a familiar voice called over that nonsense: “Maker’s furry nutsack, is that _you_ , Fenris?”

Fenris staggered to a stop, bleary gaze swinging across what little he could see of the courtyard before focusing on a deep red coat left open over a hairy chest. Varric came jogging over, brows knit in visible horror and dismay; he caught Fenris’s elbow, then swung an arm around his waist, ignoring the soft hiss of protest as Fenris nearly crumpled against him.

“…shit,” Varric breathed, looking up at him, so bloody sorrowful that Fenris couldn’t even bring himself to demand the truth. There was no point: it was looking back at him from those dark, haunted eyes. “Shit, Fenris, I’m sorry.”

“Do not,” Fenris began, though he had no idea how he meant to finish that thought. Apologize? Talk about Hawke as if he truly were gone?  Keep Fenris on his feet as the whole world dipped and swayed around him in a haze of red red nothing but red. “ _Do not_.”

Varric just sighed and guided Fenris’s arm across his shoulders, letting him rest his full weight against the sturdy body. “All right, Fenris,” he said, slowly leading the way across the courtyard. Hawke had been here. Hawke had walked where Fenris was walking. The thought was enough to have him shuddering in the shell of his now-too-big armor, as if sensing the ghost of his lover just around each corner. “I won’t. Come on,” he added with a broken half-smile that said he understood every bit of what Fenris was thinking. “Let’s get you washed and fed. You look like shit.”

For once in his life, Fenris didn’t protest—instead, he let himself be swept away, trusting his fate into another’s hands. Willing the world to fade to black.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’ve got to eat eventually,” Varric said, frowning down at Fenris.

It was morning, some…measure of days after he’d arrived. He couldn’t bother to remember. He spent most of his time sleeping, curled into a forlorn ball on the right side of the bed— _his_ side. Every time he began to stretch out, he kept expecting to feel Hawke’s warmth radiating against his back. That mabari’s weight against the brush of his toes.

It was much better, much easier, much _saner_ to just stay coiled liked a snake and not let himself remember all that.

“Fenris,” Varric said again, obviously not for the first time. “ _Fenris_.”

“I’ve got this,” another voice said—rumbling and loose, like friendly boulders cascading down a sheer cliff-face. A shadow cast across Fenris’s curled body and there was a scrape of chair-legs against stone followed by a warning creak of wood. A single (giant) finger poked Fenris’s bony hip. “So I’m told you could light up like a firefly and rip out my heart if you wanted,” the friendly giant said. “Sounds hot.”

The inanity of that was enough to have Fenris rolling over to stare at the— Oh. The qunari, massive as the Arishok but grinning crookedly in welcome. He had a tankard in one hand, steam rising from the top.

“What.” Fenris didn’t bother making it a question.

Varric, standing behind the giant, shifted and cleared his throat. “The Bull here’s got some ideas on how to keep you from giving up the ghost. Shuffling off this mortal coil. _Swooning_ yourself to bloody death, as if Hawke wouldn’t skin me alive for letting it happen.”

_Hawke_. The word was a full-body ache that had him swallowing around a dry throat.

The qunari pushed the tankard forward. “Qunari batthik,” he explained. “Good shit. Thick, hearty, and strong enough to carry you out of whatever it is you’re bogged down in. Non-addictive,” he added with a glance toward Varric, “though it’ll put some meat on your bones if you’re not careful. Of course, looking at you, that’d be nothing but good. You look like jerky forgotten at the bottom of a pack.”

“I do not…” Fenris began, meaning to finish _want your pity_ or _need your help_. But Varric stepped forward with a pinched, anxious expression that looked so unlike him, thanking the Bull in quiet tones, and Fenris felt something like pity turn over in his chest.

He wasn’t the only one who’d lost something irreplaceable when Hawke died. Was it fair to expect Varric to watch him wither away as well?

Fenris forced a hand under him and pushed himself up weakly. His muscles trembled with disuse and the foul stench of baked-in sweat rose from his filthy robes, but he managed to sit up and reach for the tankard with something approaching gratitude. “I will drink it,” he said, curling his fingers around the metal. Then, eyes locked on Varric’s, Fenris raised the tankard to his lips and took the first sip.

It was indescribable.

He made a surprised noise, jerking back hard enough that the thick, viscous liquid threatened to spill over the rim. The strange qunari just laughed. “Yeah, told you: good shit. Dying soldiers say it tastes like home. I don’t know about that, but it’s got just enough booze to make you relax, just enough elfroot to make you heal, and a whole host of other things to take you back to happier times and get you on your feet again. I left the recipe on the desk,” he added, standing, as Fenris took another deep sip. There were notes of cream and honeycomb and spices he vaguely remembered from dinners at the Amell estate. A caramel-salt undertone that reminded him of the Waking Sea. A sweet depth like Hawke’s drugging kisses.

Heat coiled down his throat and through his chest with each swallow, like a drop of blood dissolving in water. He could practically _feel_ the peace spreading through his limbs, stilling the trembles, giving him strength. His stomach unclenched for what felt like the first time in months, and he pressed a hand to its concave shape, marveling at the rumble of true _hunger,_ both sated and reignited by the strange qunari drink.

For a moment, he almost felt like himself again.

Varric flopped down into the abandoned chair, the door closing behind the Bull. He looked haggard and too-thin himself. “You look like you’re enjoying that,” he said, something like hope in his words.

Fenris made an affirmative noise, draining it to the last drop.

“The Bull said you might be hungry after,” he added, “but that we should be careful or you could gain too much weight back too quickly. But…shit, you know? Look at you. If there’s anyone who can afford to put some fat on their bones, it’s you.”

“I do not care,” Fenris said, his voice a rusty thing. He set the tankard aside, already feeling ten times stronger—maybe even strong enough to leave the bed. The grief was still there, and the terrible loss, and the feeling of slowly drowning, but it was all pushed down to the deepest part of himself, nearly lost beneath a pleasantly warm, weighty fullness.

He felt…not _happy_ , but bordering on content: belly filled with warmth. How much better would it be if he had more? “Give me another.”

Varric’s brows rose. “I don’t know if _that_ is a good idea,” he said. “The Bull said one a day’ll do you.”

“Will it kill me?” Fenris demanded.

“Well…no. Doesn’t sound like it.”

He pushed his sweaty, dirty sheets back and rose on remarkably steady feet. “Then it is my choice whether I have more,” he said. “You make it for me while I wash myself.”

“You’re actually going to _bathe_?” Varric said, stumbling up, hands out as if to catch Fenris when he fell. But he didn’t fall—he felt _strong_. “Shit, Fenris. If this stuff’ll get you out of that bed and acting like a person again, I’ll make you _two_ more.”

And he did.

Fenris drank them all without pause, without care—blissfully clean and floating on a mental cloud far, far away from his grief, belly packed full in a way that, in this moment, tied itself blood and bone with that perfect feeling of dulled contentment.

It felt so good to feel good that he didn’t even care about the way the three tankards-full of batthik left his poor starving belly pushed out in a small, hard half-dome. For a feeling like this, he would happily accept a much higher price.


	4. Chapter 4

The first time he gorged himself, it was more or less an accident.

Fenris wasn’t used to caring much about food one way or the other. Wine was his drug of choice, but even though he still indulged in alcohol more often than the damned dwarf thought he should, its dulling effects were nowhere near as pleasant and soporific as the batthik. He only wished there was a way to extend its pleasant high other than too much sleep.

Ah well. If he had to sleep his life away to somehow make it worth living again, he would.

In fact, he’d slept through lunch and woke only when the servants brought him dinner that day. “Leave it,” he said, gesturing sharply when they began removing the still-untouched noonday meal. He wanted them gone as quickly as possible; it still felt raw, wrong, unnatural to have people around him. To have anyone but _Hawke_ around him.

The batthik was easy enough to make now that he knew the trick of it, and he gulped down half the draught in one go before eyeing his dinner. The batthik general made him hungry, but so far he’d listened to the Bull’s warnings not to mix eating and drinking. But he had slept through lunch and his stomach was rumbling; what harm could it really do?

Fenris shrugged to himself and sat, beginning to pick at his dinner in flagrant violation of the Bull’s recommendations. It was some kind of game hen, steaming hot and spicy enough to remind him of… _Hawke’s laughter; fire crackling up toward the open sky; the dog whuffing in sleep and hot hands sliding around his middle to press along the sharp wings of his hipbones, drawing him back against a big body…_

Fenris choked back a gasp, nearly asphyxiating on the bite of food. The sense-memory had been so real it was as if he’d been thrown back into the past. He stared at his plate, then the tankard. Slowly, he reached out to take another heavy sip, then lifted a trembling bite of meat to his lips.

Pleasure bloomed inside his chest, his stomach, expanding ever-outwards as the memories overwhelmed him. A hot breath in his ear and a rumbling laugh against his back. The scent of Hawke all around him, growing as he chewed and swallowed, bringing tears to his eyes.

“Hawke,” Fenris said, voice breaking on the word. He drew in a ragged breath, held it, then slowly let it out. Already the awareness was fading.

More drink, then. More food. Anything to bring it back.

He closed his eyes and ate and ate and ate, remembering the nights out camping. Remembering Hawke’s kiss pressed to the back of his neck. Remembering heat building low in his belly—contentment and desire and comfort all in one.

Fenris shifted, licking at his sticky fingers, sucking away the juices even as he shifted his hips. He was half-hard at the memory mixed with the sensation of growing fullness. Hawke felt so real in this moment he might have been wrapping his arms around Fenris and urging him to finish his meal so they could crawl into their tent and enjoy the rest of the night.

Responding effortlessly to the thought, Fenris picked up the pace, tearing at hunks of buttered bread, swallowing heavy mouthfuls of batthik.

He always felt hot and heavy when Hawke was moving over him—weighted down by the bigger body and helplessly turned on. He always knew he could break free if he wanted, but something about how huge Hawke’s warrior bulk felt against his lithe muscles made him _want_ to be pressed down against the earth, want to be ravaged, want to be—

He scooped a thick pudding between his fingers and sucked it away, hips pushing up, remembering. His stomach ached with growing fullness, but that only fed the memories being sparked alive inside of him. Those big hands rubbing down the slim concavity of his belly; those nails scratching along his abs. Teeth marking his skin, followed by a tongue as he (blindly reached for the covered plate of his untouched lunch, dinner demolished) mewled and spread himself out and ached to be _full_.

Fenris shoveled food into his mouth with a single-minded devotion, overdose of batthik heating his blood and reminding him of better times. He hadn’t felt like this in what had to be weeks now: _flush_ with life and hunger, cock straining against his trousers, over-stuffed belly straining against his tunic, stuffing himself just as fast as he could as the horrible present faded away to the past—Maker, the _past_ , with Hawke still alive, Hawke still loving him, Hawke, Hawke, Hawke.

The fever broke the moment he swallowed the last mouthful of food, fading into a gentle lassitude. Fenris sucked in a breath, blinking his vision clear, and fell back against his chair with a staggered breath. He felt _full_ , absolutely over-stuffed, near to bursting. He stared down at his stomach, bemused to see the way it stuck out in a hard little pot. It was unexpected enough to steal a husking laugh from him, hands dropping down to touch its swollen heft. Fuck, he was full. He couldn’t remember ever eating a quarter as much in one sitting. He’d certainly never gotten turned on over a meal before.

It was worth it if it meant tricking himself into feeling the ghost of his lost lover again.

He eyed the empty tankard of batthik even as he carefully unfastened the straining button of his trousers, giving that over-packed gut a little room to breathe. He was momentarily tempted to slide a hand down to palm his cock too, but no, the fever was broken, and that would just feel hollow without Hawke. Maybe in the heat of his feeding frenzy, but certainly not in its aftermath—Fenris floating on a cloud of endorphins, stuffed to the gills, slumped back against his chair and rubbing the little bulge of his packed belly as he mused over this unexpected turn. Who would have thought the simple act of over-eating could take him so deep into memory? Batthik was a strange potion indeed.

Yawning, he heaved himself up and staggered toward the bed, already sinking into drowsiness. Later he would request a doubling of his meals from then on—Fenris was all too eager to chase that new high to an unexpected sort of peace.

But for now, he would sleep off the binge and dream of the man he loved.


	5. Chapter 5

Fenris stretched across the bed with a sigh, drifting out of dreamless sleep. He had gone to bed utterly stuffed to the gills, full of the miniature feast he now routinely had delivered to his room every night. That alongside the _five_ qunari potions (it turned out it was possible to build a tolerance even if they weren’t addictive) had been enough to give him an easy night and a lazy morning.

Venhedis, he still felt full. That was enough to let him stay abed a bit longer, brain lulled into a quiet hum.

From far below his window, he could hear the clash of metal and grunts of effort as Cullen’s men trained. Fenris turned his head toward the sound, curious, but not interested enough to go join them. His sword and armor had been packed away in a hewn-wood cabinet and forgotten for…how long? Weeks, surely. Perhaps two months by now.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

He stretched again, focusing instead on the pleasant heaviness in his stomach and the near-sensual pull of his night-shirt across his skin. Fenris reached down to rub absent fingertips across the small dome of his belly pooching up and drawing the material dangerously taut. It wasn’t nearly as big as it could be at the end of a meal—at the end of a bad day when it seemed he had to eat and eat and eat some more before he could get the thoughts to go quiet again—but there was meat there that hadn’t been around a few weeks ago. Even if he wasn’t still bloated from his last stuffing, Fenris reasoned, he’d have a bit of a gut poking out from his otherwise-lithe body. Maybe it would even be soft enough to pinch the way Merrill used to teasingly pinch at Isabela’s generous sides, flowing about the cinch of her corset in soft folds.

Curious, he cupped his hand over the small gut and tested its give—but no, it was still hard to the touch. Last night had been _intense_.

Fenris shrugged a shoulder and sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He stood, ignoring his unnatural stomach for now, and went to see what fresh food had been brought him in his sleep. The Inquisitor had made a point of telling the staff and kitchens to get Fenris whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it—at Varric’s bequest, no doubt. Fenris was all too willing to take advantage of that. He was only settled in himself when he felt _full_ , and if Varric wanted him to keep from curling up and waiting to die, then it looked like the only solution was for Fenris to be full _all the time_.

Besides, the act of eating gave him something to focus on. It filled his days the way swordpractice used to: checking to make sure the components for the potion were all there. Mixing it together. Draining a cup dry before idly mixing a second, picking at the edges of a platter as he listened to the sounds of fighting below and lost himself in memory.

By the time he was half-way through the second tankard, his sleeping shirt was stretched tight over his hardened stomach, bellybutton clear through the fine white material. He gave himself an absent stroke, then another, soothing the contents down by massaging at the ever-growing heft of his gut. The first few times, it had felt strange to be so bloated. Now, it was all just part of feeling good again.

The shirt stretched tighter and tighter. He picked at new foods, re-packing his belly with single-minded devotion. Outside, men grunted with physical activity and the sun moved across the stone floor as the hours passed in a constant state of grazing.

This may not have been living, Fenris thought later, deep into the night. He was lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling, drifting on a haze of food coma. He’d tempted Varric’s annoyance by making _six_ potions today, and the result was a blissful drifting lightness that belied the intense heaviness of his body. It was a strange contrast, pleasant in its own way: as amusing as the sight of his own stomach straining forward like a malignant pregnancy.

Fenris dragged his palm over the aching flesh, feeling how drum-tight his gut was. It was bigger than he’d ever seen it before—he could swear to that. Soaring up and out from his body, causing the seam of his nightshirt to creak every time he drew a breath. A cool wind touched the flushed underside of his gut, and that struck him as amusing, too. He’d gotten so swollen today that he was nearly bursting through his clothes: what would his friends back in Kirkwall say if they saw him now? What would his old _master_ say?

“My fat wolf,” Fenris muttered, closing his eyes. He smoothed both hands up the tight peak of his belly and then down again, soothing the food and drink, enjoying that feeling of _home_ and _contentment_ they brought him now. Who’d have thought something so sinfully good could come from the qunari? No wonder the Bull claimed they only allowed it in small doses. “My fat pup.”

He gave his tight belly a soft slap, startling at the _loud_ hiss of rending fabric. Fenris twisted around, turning his head to stare at the torn seam running up the length of one side. The white fabric fluttered around his gut, exposing its white lyrium lines to the moonlight. Venhedis, he looked even bigger than before like this. He had seen women five months into their pregnancy with smaller guts than he had now.

The thought perhaps should have bothered him, but it didn’t. Instead, he just rubbed his knuckles against the tight, exposed skin, and hummed a breath to himself. A little bit of extra weight didn’t matter; he could afford more meat on his bones. Wasn’t that what Varric had said?

Besides, now that he knew what it felt like to be content, he wouldn’t give it up for anything.


	6. Chapter 6

He reached for the bread, dunking it in creamy soup, licking away the dribbles that ran down his hand. Fenris kept his eyes tightly shut, lost in sense-memory, as he stuffed himself beyond capacity. One hand rubbed absently at the inflating dome of his gut, growing ever-rounder with each minute that passed.

The shirt had long since given up the ghost, ripping around the widest part of him. That had fed into his waking dream as well, turning into Hawke grabbing a fistful of his shirt and tearing it open as he hungrily thrust his tongue into Fenris’s mouth, rocking him back against the wall.

Fenris’s hips rocked forward, erection pressed against the solid underside of his gut. He felt absolutely massive, stuffed beyond anything he’d managed yet, but he had to keep going. The shreds of his clothes were tattered around him and his skin was flushed a deep copper—his belly was pushed out in a round dome, resting between his thighs from the sheer ridiculous amount of food he’d packed inside—and still he had to keep going. He couldn’t stop until he could no longer feel Hawke there.

He’d let himself burst first, if he had to.

Finally, finally the fever snapped and he fell back in his chair with a winded gasp. He felt as if an anvil had been dropped onto his stomach, and when Fenris blinked open his eyes, he stared in disbelief at the massive curve of his gut.

He was…he was huge. Swollen as any expectant mother, well into the point where she should have given birth. It rested in his lap, pushing his thighs subtly apart. It very nearly kept him pinned back, and Fenris had to grab the rung of his chair to hoist himself up, swollen stomach rising before him.

Exhaustion was already setting in, but he took a moment to clean himself off, tattered clothes parting around the swell of his gut—sides oh so subtly curving out in the beginning hint of softness that Fenris was too out of it to see, covering his lithe body with a promise of more to come.


	7. Chapter 7

Fenris yawned and stretched, reaching for the book he’d left on his bedside table…then froze as something unexpected caught his eye. He’d woken round and still-stuffed as usual, but the soft roll of fat folding over his smallclothes wasn’t usual at all.

Or was it?

He frowned down at himself, twisting to push at the too-tight pinch of his smalls. The excess flesh strained against the material, forming a fold he couldn’t quite remember seeing before. He gave the tiny muffin-top a little pinch, surprised when he could gather the fat between his fingers. Usually his stomach remained in a constant state of hardness, stuffed into an awkward pregnancy that left him lazing about in bed for all hours, reading or napping to pass the time.

(His reading had increased by leaps and bounds now that he had nothing better to steal his time. Hawke would have been proud.)

( _Hawke_.)

Fenris gave his stomach an experimental nudge, surprised to note the thin layer of pudge clinging to the roundness of his gut. It was impressively swollen as always, nearly resting in his lap. He’d stopped wearing sleeping shirts, too annoyed when they grew tight and ripped around him. But he _had_ to wear something even if hardly anyone ever saw him.

He stood, stomach rising before him like the prow of a ship, and tugged at the tightness of his smalls again. If these were so snug, the “loose” trousers were likely a lost cause. Was he truly getting fat?

…he couldn’t bring himself to care. If the options were between stopping or outgrowing his clothing, he’d rip through every scrap he had. He couldn’t face going back to feeling the sharp edge of loss now.

Determined, Fenris turned and started to make his first drink of the day, a small bulge gently rolling over the edge of his smalls.


	8. Chapter 8

Varric whistled as he stepped into the room. “Maker’s beard, Fenris,” he said, “but you’ve gotten fat.”

Fenris didn’t bother looking up from his book. “Yes,” he said, turning the page. There was no use denying it: the past few months had been lost in a haze of eating and sleeping and drinking batthik over and over and over again. A cycle unending, broken only by occasional curious prods at his own ever-changing body.

The first few pounds had taken some time to come, sluggishly clinging to his always-trim hips or the ridiculous exaggerated curve of his food-packed belly. But once the gain began to take hold, it took hold in _earnest_ , until waking up each morning was an exercise in relearning himself anew.

Varric had been away for much of that, Fenris remembered as he looked up to see the dwarf still standing there, still staring at him in open shock. When he’d left, Fenris had been barely edging toward plump despite his constant stuffing. Now…

He looked down, following Varric’s dumbfounded gaze. He’d taken to wearing a loose loincloth instead of traditional smallclothes, unwilling to deal with the aggravation of his clothes tightening around his growing bulk again and again. Even he had to admit that the sheer expanse of bared flesh did nothing to make him look _smaller_. His body was a series of lush curves and thick bulges—starting with his stomach.

No, his _belly_. Somewhere along the way, it had begun to pooch out even when not over-stuffed, rolling forward over the edge of his loincloth. It was soft to the touch and surprisingly jiggly, deep gash of a belly button growing deeper daily. Sometimes he found himself absently rubbing at the forward jut of it, playing with the soft give of flesh as he daydreamed or drifted or read another one of Varric’s books. Having a belly was a surprisingly comforting thing, even if it seemed determined to grow bigger with each day that passed.

There were thickening rolls around his hips and all the way up his sides. His strong arms were covered in a layer of flab, and his chest had softened into tiny mounds of flesh—nothing like tits yet, but ripe with the promise of more if he wasn’t careful.

His arse was as wide as Isabela’s and his thighs as chunky. In fact, Fenris mused, closing the book over his thumb, draw the impressive bulge of her breasts down to the belly and they might have been of a size on her heaviest days. The thought had him rubbing at his belly absently, fingers fondling the excess flesh.

Varric still stood there, frozen, _staring._ His eyes were widening slowly as he took Fenris in, cataloguing the many changes with dumbfounded interest. Fenris merely leaned back and allowed the dwarf to look his fill, aware of the heavy lush weight of his plump body and how _changed_ he must appear.

Finally Varric found his voice again. “The Bull warned that something like this could happen,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against it, gaze raking down Fenris’s form. “He said that batthik could lead to crazy weight gain if you weren’t careful, but, but… This is _insane_ Fenris. You know that, right?”

He shrugged a shoulder and set the book aside, languidly leaning back—stomach rolling forward. He felt, weirdly, like a fertility statue come to life. If Hawke were here, he’d be able to grab his widened hips and fuck him full with heaving, steady grunts. Each thrust would set him to subtly jiggling—a thought that probably should have repulsed him. Some days, it did. Some days, he woke with horror over how soft and fat and useless he was allowing his warrior’s body to become…but today wasn’t one of those days. Today, he just was what he _was:_ a grieving, plump elf, bigger than any other elf he’d ever seen; big as a human gone to pot. Very likely to grow even _bigger._ “It is what it is,” Fenris said as philosophically as he could manage.

Varric shook his head. “But you’re…truly _fat_ , Fenris,” he said, as if Fenris could somehow have missed the metamorphosis of his own body. “You know that, don’t you?”

Fenris dropped both hands to his belly, fingers sinking into the soft jiggle of skin. He found himself doing that often, absentmindedly rubbing at his over-packed gut or, like low, squeezing folds of fat in an unconscious rhythm. It was oddly comforting to cup his own flesh like this, drawing the dwarf’s eyes down to the messy spill of his own over-indulgence. “I am fat,” Fenris said matter-of-factly. “I will become fatter before this is through.”

“But…Fenris.” Varric pushed away from the door, heading in to poke through the various potion components on the far table. He shook his head over whatever he saw there—likely how many empty glasses there already were today. “If we stop this now, you could…shit, I don’t know. Begin going outside. Working with Cassandra. You could lose all that,” he gestured wordlessly, speakingly, toward the widest part of Fenris’s body, “and trim down and fight again, if you wanted.”

“I could,” Fenris agreed. He gave his own belly a little slap, watching the way his lyrium-streaked skin rippled. There were other silvery marks snaking up his wide flanks now, these far less painful than the ones his master had given him. If he weren’t so constantly out-of-it on batthik, he might have been horrified by the stretch marks lining his flesh—at the way his pudgy sides bulged out into rolls as he sat there—at the flash of a second chin settling in to stay. He might have cared that the trim strength Hawke had fallen in lust then love with was no longer there.

As it was, he just jiggled his belly and watched with detached bemusement as Varric _stared_.

“…but you won’t,” Varric finally finished for him, eyes locked on the wobble of Fenris’s belly. It was almost as if he’d never seen a fat elf before. (That thought—and the certainty that Varric truly _hadn’t_ ever seen an elf with a body like his—shouldn’t have been so amusing.) “You’re going to stay locked up in here, drinking that shit and stuffing yourself to death.”

Fenris shrugged a plump shoulder.

Varric crossed his arms. “You know, all this hasn’t taken that long to pile on,” he pointed out. “Keep going at this rate, and it’ll be…what? Three months? Four? And you’ll be so big you won’t be able to get out of that bed. Do you really want it to come to that, Fenris? Do you want to be _so fat_ you can’t even haul your wide ass out of bed?”

He was being deliberately cruel, Fenris knew, trying to needle him into snapping out of this haze he was in—this path he had chosen. But Varric didn’t understand what it felt like to _not_ have the batthik or the food or the comfort of being so warm and full. He mourned Hawke, but his soul hadn’t been crushed by his death.

Fenris could survive being so fat he could barely lift his arms, body overflowing the edges of his bed. He could survive being the mockery of the entire Inquisition—an oddity, a spectacle, a _fat elf_ hidden away and slowly drowning himself in food. But he couldn’t survive feeling the sharp edge of loss.

“It is my choice,” he said. He grabbed the back of his chair, pressing his other hand to the table, and slowly rose, deliberately letting Varric take all of him in. The wide, curving hips, lush as a woman’s. The thick thighs that threatened to brush together. The impressive pot of his belly and the subtle softness of his tits. “It is my body.”

“Hawke would want me to take care of you.” Varric’s voice broke over the words, but he soldiered on. “He wouldn’t want to see you like…like _this_.”

Fenris dropped a hand to his belly again, sinking his fingers into soft flab. “Hawke is dead,” he said, his own heart quaking at the words. Then, turning away: “Please tell the kitchens it is time for my dinner.”

There was a long hesitation, as if Varric were too dumbfounded to reply. Then, he sighed. “All right, Broody,” he said, sounding sad, resigned. “If that’s what makes you happy…all right.”


	9. Chapter 9

Fenris swallowed, draining the batthik even as he was reaching for his next bite. The table had nearly groaned beneath the weight of his meal—his chair had _more_ than groaned, crying out its protest at his ever-growing bulk—but he had picked his way skillfully through it.

Varric was gone again, on yet another mission. It had to be the second…third?...he’d taken since their fight, but each time he left Skyhold, he instructed the castellan to take good care of Fenris. Since that _good care_ translated directly into obscene feasts and more than enough potion reagents to keep him going for weeks at a time, Fenris couldn’t complain.

Especially now, as he was stuffing himself in a near-frenzy. It had been a bad morning, dreams of Hawke chasing him awake to gasping almost-sobs. His hands had shaken so badly that he’d spilled his first glass of batthik (cupping his hands to catch the precious liquid and sucking it off his fingers) and hadn’t been able to calm until he was three cups deep. Now he was drifting higher than ever before, feeling phantom hands caressing his massively stuffed belly—gripping the fat folds of his sides, digging strong fingers into the plush width of his hips, exploring each trembling inch of him as he reached out for more, more, always more.

He ripped a hunk of bread and dunked it in some sort of gravy, taking a greedy bite. His usual fastidiousness had long since faded and he felt like the wolf he had been named for, practically panting as he plowed his way through the feast. There were spatters across his dome-like belly, dripping from his fingers and chin, and he would be horrified if he wasn’t eating like a man possessed—determinedly stuffing himself fuller and fuller and fatter, bloating up with each second that passed.

Fenris’s head swam and his breaths came in sharp huffs. He grabbed a handful of some rich, crumbling grain—like stuffing, only sweet as honey—and stuffed it into his mouth. His chair groaned again, shuddering beneath him, as Fenris reached for a hunk of meat, barely pausing long enough to chew and swallow. He sank his teeth into the flesh and tore, feeling a pain deep in his gut—feeling his breath catch—feeling, most importantly, the memory of _those hands_ on him, soothing hot paths across his skin, making him…

_Venhedis_ , he was hard, erection digging against the gravid underside of his belly. Fenris grunted and huffed and stuffed his face, each mouthful taking him higher, each swallow making the memory of Hawke stronger. If he hate everything in sight, would he feel a hot mouth close around his prick? Would he finally find release in his lost lover again?

He strained for a clean plate, practically shoveling food messily into his gaping maw, desperate to find out.

There were nine empty cups of batthik scattered across the table and floor and more empty carcasses than he cared to note. Fenris leaned forward, reaching blindly for more, fat thighs trembling as he held them spread wide in invitation. His chair gave another loud screech of protest, sturdy wood shuddering beneath his frenzied body. And then, just as he was swallowing a mouthful of sweetmeats—

— _BAM!_

Fenris gave a muffled shout, arms flinging out uselessly to catch his fall as the wooden chair shattered beneath his growing bulk. The grace that had always marked his lithe warrior’s body abandoned him utterly—fat arms pinwheeled as he went tumbling down to spill across the floor, too gravid and slow to stop himself. He hit with a solid _thwap_ of flesh, splintered wood scattering around him.

It all happened so fast, Fenris barely had time to do more than grunt in a breath. He lay sprawled across the stone, staring up at the ceiling with dazed shock and creeping mortification. The embarrassment slunk in along the edges of his awareness even as he lay there, flat on his back, feeling heavy and helpless and… _fat_.

Just so very incredibly fat.

_The chair_ , he thought, turning his head. He spotted a broken leg, the solid back, the _seat_ worn through by his own bulk. Had he really gotten so heavy he had broken his _chair_? He started to sit up, only to puff out a breath and collapse back again. His gut was inflated huge and wide above him, so ridiculously over-stuffed that it was all but pinning him in place. Fenris blinked up at it, startled to realize that he wasn’t just big…he was _huge_ , like this. Stuffed well past any reasonable form, much larger than a woman set to give birth. Wide in every direction and tight as a drum despite the generous pudge he knew made up his belly when he wasn’t so impossibly full.

He reached up to run a hand over the straining flesh, astounded by how it arched from his plush body and… _yes_ , he thought, trying and failing to push himself up again, kept him pinned helplessly in place.

Fenris collapsed back with a whuff of breath, belly trembling over him. All he could see was belly, it seemed. All he could feel was the tight pain of being full past his limits…and the batthik giving him the memory of Hawke’s breath against his ear. Hawke’s bears brushing his tight nipples. Hawke’s hands mapping the ridiculous width of his helpless body.

“Please,” Fenris whimpered, quiet. He spread his thick thighs, beach-ball gut resting between them, and writhed subtly against the cold stone floor. He was so hard, erection slick at the tip, dribbling precome against the bottom curve of his belly as he panted in a breath.

Food and grease were smeared across his mouth and chins and soft tits; his whole body shook as he tried to arch into the memory of a touch. It wasn’t enough, barely more than a tease, and Fenris squeezed his eyes shut as he thrust a hand down to close desperate fingers around his erection.

He couldn’t reach.

Fenris gave a frustrated cry, straining his head to look down. His body felt foreign to him, blown up to comical size, over-packed belly and sides so round that… _venhedis_ , he couldn’t get his stomach out of the way enough to grab his own cock. He huffed a breath and cupped his mammoth gut, trying to pull it out of the way even as he strained. His fingertips brushed his erection and he managed to close his hand around it for a nanosecond before he had to relax, losing his grip, entire frame shaking as he fell back in defeat.

He tried again a moment later, fighting to heave himself up for another angle, only to fall back again— _again_ , too round to manage. Outside the window, Fenris was dimly aware of Cassandra or Cullen running the soldiers through exercises again—and here he lay, helpless and huge on the floor of his room, too fat to rise, too fat to touch himself, too fat to do anything but lay there pinned beneath his latest hedonistic feast and try to thrust his hips up into the heavy rotundity of his own body, out of his mind with need and memory and batthik.

Swollen huge and full enough to pop.


	10. Chapter 10

A few weeks later, the door swung open and there was nothing but shocked silence.

“Good,” Fenris said without raising his head to check. Only one person ever visited him outside of feeding time—and even that was rare, given how often Varric was away on missions. “Help me.”

He held out an arm, softly padded and round as his thigh had once been. The hanging fat swayed with the motion, lyrium and stretch marks gleaming silver in the dim light.

Varric let out a soft breath. “I wouldn’t recognize you if you didn’t have those markings,” he said, letting the door close behind him. He padded over, strong hands gripping Fenris’s arm, fingers digging deep into flesh, and helped to hoist him up. “I’ve gotta say, Broody—I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone as fat as you.”

“Then you have not seen many indolent nobles,” Fenris said. Panted, really, as he focused on shifting his belly over his thighs, using his strength plus Varric’s to hoist him into sitting position. His thighs instantly pushed apart, wedged by the pillowy soft belly—its bottom roll rippling with each movement, spilling halfway or more to Fenris’s dimpled knees. It rested there like a lump of clay, dark gash of his belly button interrupting hills and valleys (or were they mountains now?) of fat.

That bottom roll led into a crease, then another roll that rested snugly beneath the soft swell of his breasts. He couldn’t remember the moment they had tipped from chest to tits, but now they were a soft handful—double the size of Merrill’s, easily, near enough to fill his hands. They swayed whenever he pushed himself up to standing—soft udders with downward-pointing nipples that somehow made him feel even fatter than the huge spill of his belly or even the massive width of his hips.

Varric’s eyes dropped down to those hips now, taking in the way Fenris’s expanded rear spread across the (reinforced, ever since he broke the first one) bed.  He whistled. “Shit,” Varric said. “No, it’s official: even the most puffed-up noble I’ve met could get himself out of bed.”

“I can still get up,” Fenris protested. He rested his hands on his belly, thick arms folded against thicker sides. His thighs were spread wide, bottom swell of his gut resting against the mattress—with Varric’s eyes on him, he could even feel the fold of his second chin ringing his once-sharp face. “And I can walk just fine. It was just a bad night.”

Varric shook his head. He stepped back, studying Fenris like he was a stranger, or some kind of freak, or both. It wasn’t often that Fenris was fully aware of just how fat he’d become. He was nearly always given over to batthik or food comas now, lost in a state of perpetual feeding. Only occasionally, when his hips brushed a table that should have been well clear of his body, or he knocked his chair over, or the bed broke beneath him did he pause to take stock of how heavy he felt. Of how wide he spread as he lay there. Of the fact that wherever he grabbed on his body, he could cup inches and inches and inches of fat.

Maybe he _was_ fatter than any noble Varric had ever seen. Maybe he _was_ getting big enough that the little things like getting out of bed, standing, walking, took more effort than before.

Maybe Hawke, if he were still alive, wouldn’t recognize him either.

Fenris hissed out a breath and braced himself, hauling his body up with a strain of muscles he hadn’t used for anything else in many, many months. His body settled and swayed around him, rippling forward to roll over the edge of his loincloth. He moved to the far table, wide hip brushing furniture in that way it always seemed to, and Varric gave another low whistle.

“What?” Fenris demanded, not looking at him. He refused to pay attention to the way his big, soft belly thwapped against his thighs…or the way he had to rest it on the table as he reached for the ingredients he needed for more batthik.

“You’re waddling,” Varric said, moving to stand next to him. He ignored Fenris’s glare. “I can’t believe I’ve lived to see the day _you_ grew too fat to walk properly.”

“Did you just come here to mock me?” Fenris demanded. His stomach grumbled as if voicing its own annoyance, and Fenris reached down to rub a circle against the soft skin. There was at least another hour until his feast. “To tell me what I already know? I am a ridiculously fat elf; I _know_.”

His old friend sighed. “No, Fenris,” he said. “I didn’t come here to mock you. But…this does have to stop eventually. You know that, right?”

Fenris paused. Belly resting on the table, fat thighs pressed snug together, tits hanging big and soft and arms as round as a man thigh—swollen up with food and grief and memories, nothing at all like the warrior he had once been.

A few hundred pounds heavier than he began, and perhaps just a hundred or so more until he really _couldn’t_ push himself out of bed anymore.

“I know,” he said, quiet. Feeling his weight, his heft, his _metamorphosis_ more now than ever before. Even still, his hands kept working, finishing the batthik. Finishing the potion that would add more curves upon the exaggerated width of his already-fat body. “This will have to end soon, but…not today.”


	11. Chapter 11

Fenris took a deep breath and heaved himself forward, using the last of his strength to wriggle up. The bed creaked in warning beneath his ever-growing bulk and he could feel the strain—the weight—the sheer force of gravity trying to drag him back down again.

His round thighs were spread beneath a wide swath of over-stuffed belly. It spilled down toward the bed, very nearly brushing the mattress as he struggled to push himself up—so ridiculously fat his body no longer wanted to obey him.

He grit his teeth, sweat breaking across his brow. This was—This was _ridiculous_. He’d been a warrior for all the life he could remember. There was no way he was about to be defeated by a bed.

By his own pillowy soft body.

“I…will not…relent,” Fenris growled, fighting to get an arm up under him. It was hard to get the proper angle, the thick, hanging flesh impeding him every time it brushed against the rolls of fat spilling from his sides. His big belly shook, wobbling obscenely, like the ripple of an earthquake beneath standing water.

All of him shook now. _All_ of him jiggled, and quaked, and swayed with each movement, hanging from him in heavy creases. His mammoth hips took up much of the mattress; he’d had to switch to a (carefully reinforced) bench chair some unknown amount of time ago. He’d simply grown too fat for any of the Inquisition’s chairs.

Soon, he realized with an internal groan, he’d grow too fat for the bed. It was only a matter of time.

Fenris collapsed back, panting, absently cupping his own thick belly to keep it steady. It was so wide he had to stretch to hold it, and there was no way he could wrap his arms around the full circumference of his bulk. It had been a long time, actually, since he’d been able to do that—could he even remember what it felt like to only be a _little_ fat?

He closed his eyes, remembering a time when he could roll out of bed with ease. When he didn’t feel such a heavy weight perched on his chest. When his whole form didn’t _tremble_ every time he took a breath—a fat dothraki with nothing on his mind but feeding.

Fenris’s stomach rumbled and he gave it a gentle rub, fingers digging into soft flesh. He was so bloody _hungry_ …

“Venhedis,” he muttered, opening his eyes again to glare up at the all-too-familiar ceiling. He stayed in bed whenever he wasn’t eating now. It just seemed easier to give in to the weight dragging him steadily down, and besides, he was always so _tired_ now. He’d still be asleep, except his stomach was rumbling with the renewal of hunger and it had been _hours_ since he’d last had a dose of batthik, and…

He heaved in a breath, struggling to push himself up again, heavy body see-sawing as his huge belly bulged out over his round, thrashing thighs. They rubbed together thick and hot, creating the Waking Sea from his capsized body, building the frustration inside him deeper and deeper until—

Fenris grunted in anger and phased, stretched lyrium lines lighting up with light as he ghosted. All at once, his body was light as a feather again, his to control, and he rose in a graceful move, as easy as breathing. Almost the moment his feet hit the floor, the lyrium sparked and faded, and he gasped, stumbling—staggering belly-first into the table. It cracked as he slapped his hands against its wide face, substantial weight resting on its rough-hewn surface. Each warning creak made him wince, knowing it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“I have to stop this,” Fenris said aloud, as if that would somehow be enough to convince him when nothing else had. Even as he said the words, he leaned forward, reaching for a basket of cheese-breads he knew he had waiting for him; he could _smell_ them hot and tempting, so very close. His big tits swayed and the top roll of his belly pooched over as he rested his weight against the protesting table. It creaked and screamed and squealed, but it stayed in one piece as Fenris plucked out a roll and brought it to his mouth.

Crumbs scattered across the table. They gathered on his bare chest. He barely bothered to brush them away, eyes closing as he fed the ravenous beast inside of him—swearing, even as he did so, that today would be the day he’d find a way to leave his dependence on food and qunari drink behind.


	12. Chapter 12

Fenris managed a single day of a restricted diet. In the end, he simply requested a sturdier table, a bigger bed, and a rail of steel running along the headboard. If he squirmed around into the right position, he could just manage to grab it and haul himself up without further assistance.

It was only a matter of time before that failed him too, but for now…it would have to do.


	13. Chapter 13

Fenris lost track of days, weeks, in his self-imposed exile. They all seemed to blur together in a hazy sense of time passing, seasons cycling outside his window as he ate and ate and ate. Nothing much could draw his attention away from the pleasure of his meals or the peace they gave him.

That is, until the day he was just finishing stuffing himself, round thighs spread wide on the bench seat by the huge swing of his belly, six empty goblets of batthik by his elbow and fat arms wobbling every time he reached out…and he heard a shout rising from the courtyard.

That in itself was unusual enough to have him pause, still-chewing, eyes lifting from his overladen table. But then the words people were calling back and forth to each other _finally_ registered.

“Hawke!” they were saying as they rushed by to the front entrance of Skyhold. “He’s back from the Fade!”

Hawke.

_Hawke_.

The idea, the sheer madness of chance, had Fenris rooted to the spot in shock. He let the chicken leg tumble from his slack grasp, swallowing by instinct alone as he heard the cry rising up throughout Skyhold, echoing like the distant rumble of thunder: _Hawke, Hawke, Hawke, Hawke._

“Hawke,” he breathed, and began to rise.

Instantly, Fenris was jerked back into place, held down by the sheer weight of his body. He blinked, looking down at himself almost as if he were seeing a stranger. There were the pillowy fat thighs, flesh rolling across the wooden plank of the reinforced seat. There were the truly massive hips, dark and dimpled with fat, pushing against the arms of the bench chair. There was the bottommost roll of a belly spilling so heavy he was forced to keep his legs apart, easily covering his privates and swinging down every time he shifted. There was a second roll just above that, and a third, leading up to big, juicy tits with downward-pointing nipples and arms as round as his thighs had once been. They trembled like water every time he moved, lyrium lines mapping his overabundance of flesh alongside silvery stretch marks.

He was truly obese, easily six times or more his former size, and nothing like the lithe warrior Hawke left behind.

Venhedis. Would Hawke even recognize him? Would he still want him like this: a quivering pile of blubber, addicted to food and qunari drink, lost for Maker knew how long in grief?

Fenris clenched his fists and pushed aside the doubt for now. He would worry about that later, after he had caught a glimpse of his lover. He concentrated instead on igniting his powers, letting his body ghost. It took massive amounts of energy to turn his whole form insubstantial—Fenris knew from experience that he could only manage it once every few hours, but he needed to be up on his feet and _moving_ despite the overinflated, stuffed gut trying to weight him down. He stood light as ever as his body went insubstantial, belly rising through the table before he backed away, giving himself room. He headed toward the door, ghostly body jiggling like mad, but he couldn’t feel its weight, couldn’t sense it pulling him down, couldn’t be slowed until, just as he threw open the door, he was back to corporeal form again.

Instantly, all that weight dragged at him, nearly forcing him down. Fenris buckled his knees and held on; he grit his teeth, listening to people call out Hawke’s name, practically chanting it, and let that drive to see the man he loved be enough to keep him from falling. He shifted his legs wider, finding balance as he shuffled the last few steps out the door. He hadn’t walked more than a few paces around the room in ages, but surely it wouldn’t be too difficult to walk to the front courtyard.

Drawing a deep, joyful breath, Fenris stepped through the door for the first time since Hawke died.

And was immediately _stuck_.

He gave a grunt of surprise at the sudden pinch of wood against the outer curve of his hips. It felt hard and tight, hemming him in as he tried to squirm forward. He half-twisted to look, amazing to see his own wide, fleshy body trapped between doorjamb and doorjamb. A fold of fat poured past the exist, leading to a _deep_ indentation, squeezing him tight.

Letting out a breath, Fenris shifted his hips and tried to squirm through.

He barely budged.

He grabbed the edge of the doorway and pulled. He pushed, seeing if he could propel himself back. He squirmed and sucked in his stomach and twisted and tried to use momentum and his own massive weight to pry himself free, but as the minutes passed and his breaths grew ragged, he began to realize with a sinking stomach that he was well and truly _stuck_ in the doorway: too fat too push his way to freedom and too exhausted to ghost again.

Fenris stared down at himself, watching the wobble of his big belly as if from a thousand miles away. He was incredulous—surely he couldn’t be _that_ fat? And yet the evidence more than proved that he was. He was simply too fat to fit through the door.

The shock of realization was enough to drown out the rest of his senses…until an all-too-familiar voice— _Hawke’s_ voice, long thought lost to him forever—drawled. “Well. Someone’s been taking care of himself while I’ve been away.”


	14. Chapter 14

Fenris went still.

Skyhold was still erupting with noise and celebration, but he may as well have been caught under a glass dome for all he was aware of the sound. His unsteady breaths were all he heard—the rushing in his ears—the familiar creak of leather as _Hawke_ moved closer to him.

He wet his lips, sucking in a breath and trying to twist free one last time, but his body was stuck in place. He was helpless and _huge_ , every bit of him jiggling madly long after he’d stopped struggling. Fenris was so very aware of his naked belly rising up and out, soaring from him in a big, blubbery mass. He was aware of the folds of fat around his chin, the heavy tits hanging from his chest, the wide arse pinned in by the doorway and his dimpled and pitted thighs squeezing helplessly together as he stood there before his lost lover, _nothing_ like the warrior he used to be.

Fenris swallowed as Hawke slowly moved close. In all his dreams of the man (as he ate and drank, ate and drank, ate and drank himself into this ridiculous state) he had never truly thought he’d see him again. If he had, would he have let himself get to this state?

Venhedis. He didn’t think so.

Color heated his cheeks, burning bright, and Fenris flicked his gaze up once to take Hawke in. _Hawke_ , here and alive and just as handsome as ever. He looked a little worn around the edges, but the rips in his dark armor showed tight muscles and lean sinew. There were streaks of white in his hair now and silver flecking his beard, but he was just as imposing and gorgeous and wonderful as ever—and here Fenris was, too damn fat to fit through a doorway to greet him.

Hawke smiled when he caught Fenris looking up through his lashes, stopping in front of him. He had to stand some feet back to avoid the forward jut of Fenris’s huge belly, but he leaned at the waist as he cupped Fenris’s round cheeks, brushing their mouths together.

His toes curled. His heart broke. He felt like he was falling and flying, just from that kiss. Fenris gasped into it, reaching for Hawke, only to drop his arms again at the heavy _weight_ of them. The hanging fat rippled with the motion, and he thought for a moment he might die of shame.

Hawke pulled back, still cupping his soft jaw, still smiling at him. His thumbs brushed across Fenris’s skin. “It’s so good to see you, Fen,” he said. Then, because he was a sarcastic asshole: “All of you.” He tipped back, looking Fenris up and down. “ _Allllll_ of you.”

Fenris sighed and swatted his lover’s hands away, suddenly comfortable with him again despite his massive gain. This wasn’t a stranger—this was _Hawke_. “Yes,” he said waspishly, “make fun of me on the day you return.”

“Would I be _me_ if I didn’t poke fun?” Hawke said. He arched a brow. “And there’s just so much more of you to poke now. Look.” He gently jabbed a finger into Fenris’s side, whistling when it sunk in. “That’s a lot of cushioning you’ve got there. What happened, Fenris? Did you eat the Inquisition?”

“You are terrible,” Fenris said, though there was so much fondness in his words that he didn’t blame Hawke for hearing the truth: _I love you more than anything, you horrible man._

Hawke laughed. “I am terrible,” he agreed, “but _you_ have breasts. Look at this, Fenris. _Actual breasts_.” He reached up to gently take a handful, lifting Fenris’s heavy, hanging tits and squeezing them together. Calloused thumbs brushed over his nipples, and it was like being shocked alive, feeling those hands on him again. Fenris closed his eyes, shuddering, not _caring_ that his whole body quivered with the motion. The fact that Hawke was teasing him meant that Hawke still loved him, wanted him—fucked up as that sounded. Because if Hawke had been polite about his massive weight gain, if he had pretended not to notice or been an actual gentleman about it, it would have meant there was distance between them.

This…this taunting, teasing, was as much a declaration of love as anything. And the fact that Hawke was willing to get his hands on Fenris’s bloated body meant that maybe…

Well. Maybe there’d be a chance for Hawke to find him at least a little attractive again, someday.

“They’re rather nice breasts, actually,” Hawke mused, toying with them. Rubbing the nipples and squeezing the soft heft and testing their weight. “Not like a broodmother at all.”

Fenris jerked up his chin, glaring at him. “I am not,” he began hotly.

“Not at all!” Hawke agreed cheerfully. “You’re much hotter, for one. For two, I’m pretty sure if I managed to hoist that huge belly of yours, I’d be able to find a cock down there somewhere.”

His cock actually twitched at the thought.

“This is… How are you alive?” Fenris managed, ignoring the way Hawke was sliding his hands over him, curiously poking and prodding and squeezing rolls and folds of fat. It was bizarre standing here having this conversation while _stuck_ in a doorway, but, well, his whole life was bizarre. And he truly did want to know. “How did you make it back?”

Hawke hummed. “Don’t know,” he said, then laughed and easily ducked away from Fenris’s slow swipe. “Oh look,” he added with a cheeky grin. “Another unexpected bonus to coming home to find the love of your life swollen up six times his size: he can’t chase you down when you annoy him.”

“That will be a problem,” Fenris agreed, eyes narrowing. “You annoy me often.”

“It’s only because I love you so much,” Hawke said—and pushed in to press full against the soft give of Fenris’s body, letting all that pillowy fat embrace him as he slid his fingers into Fenris’s hair and _kissed_ him long and lush and deep. He stroked his tongue into Fenris’s mouth and pressed in harder, then harder still, as if he could lose himself in the enveloping warmth of Fenris’s body.

His hands slid down, thumbs massaging a trail into Fenris’s round arms, across his breasts, down the cascading rolls of his sides to his overhanging belly. Hawke gripped its apron of fat, squeezing it between his fingers even as he arched up against Fenris’s body, lifting his belly up in a way Fenris couldn’t really do for himself anymore—exposing his loincloth-covered privates and squeezing his fat together and _pushing_ insistently against him until suddenly…

Fenris stumbled back, breaking the endless kiss with a growl as he tumbled out of the doorway, rocketed back like a cork. He staggered, tumbling down under momentum and his own weight. Hawke tried to grab for his arms, his own catlike grace keeping him on his feet at first, but even he wasn’t strong enough to lift Fenris. When Fenris fell, he _fell_ , hitting the ground ass-first and going toppling back.

One hand managed to jerk out, but that only made things worse as he grabbed Hawke’s thigh and somehow managed to bring the other man down on _top_ of him. He hit hard, knocking the breath out of Fenris, and for one blinding moment, he thought he might black out.

A second passed, then another. Fenris slowly became aware of himself lying face-up on the floor. His body had spread across the cold stone, legs pushed apart, belly rising in an undeniable mountain. He would never be able to climb up on his own without use of his powers, and in that moment he felt completely useless—the fattest man he had ever seen, bloated up into all-but-immobility.

But then he blinked as Hawke gave a wry chuckle and leaned over him, face swimming into view. His lover was lying on top of him, balanced over the dome of his gut. He looked dazed but amused. “Well,” Hawke said. “That’s one way to get you unstuck, I suppose.”

Fenris groaned and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back—but there was something undeniably comforting about having Hawke laying on his bulk like this. Something strangely wonderful in the way his strong hands were massaging the softness of Fenris’s paunch, testing out the give before adding a sharp little slap.

His whole body quivered in response.

“Just look at you,” Hawke said, more awe in his voice than teasing now. “You’re so huge. I never imagined you’d gain a pound, much less a few hundred of them. Do you know how much you weigh now?”

“No,” Fenris said, blinking up at him fondly.

Hawke whistled. “It has to be four hundred, five hundred, easy,” he said. “Maybe more. I think maybe more, Fenris.”

“When you were gone,” Fenris said, “the only way I could cope was to eat. I would have happily eaten myself to death.”

Hawke leaned over him, brushing another soft kiss over his lips. His fingertips brushed Fenris’s round cheek. “I’m glad it didn’t come to that,” he said quietly. “I would have had to dive head-first into the void to drag you kicking and screaming back to me.”

“You could not drag me now if you wanted,” Fenris said. Then, testing out the teasing words, accepting them, he added, “I am far too fat for that.”

His lover grinned, sudden and bright, and Fenris found himself grinning back. Any embarrassment he felt was gone for now. Somehow, this big, ungainly body was their inside joke, and it felt good to look back at those months and months of mourning (and eating) and make light of it.

He could do that now, after all, with Hawke by his side.

“It’s true,” Hawke said, settling down into the curve of Fenris’s body. He kept one thigh flung over one of Fenris’s fat legs, his hands roving the massive jut of his belly. “You’re too fat for pretty much everything now. I couldn’t lift you if I tried.” He paused. “I bet I could lift your paunch, though.”

“My _what_?” Fenris said, but Hawke was already moving, straddling one of Fenris’s legs. Fenris watched, with growing interest as his lover quickly stripped away his own breastplate, leaving him in nothing but his filthy undershirt.

Hawke caught him looking and winked. “Oh, you want to see what ripped muscles look like? Did you forget?” He lightly smacked Fenris’s flank again, setting him to jiggling. Fenris just rolled his eyes, but he _did_ watch as Hawke pulled off his undershirt with a flourish, revealing a muscular, lightly haired chest.

Seeing those strong pecs and abs against his own blubber was mortifying, but in an oddly good way. It almost felt sexy, having Hawke straddling his leg, tight abs pressed against the bottom roll of his oversized gut. Hawke must have thought so too. He rocked up once, pressing them tighter together, testing the way they shook.

“Look at that,” Hawke said, partly to himself. “Look at my gorgeous elf lover, quivering with each touch. Look at how big your belly is, Fenris. Look at how big your _breasts_ are. Void. Isabela would be jealous of those. I’m going to suck on your tits later,” Fenris _shuddered_ at the promise, pleasure cascading through him, “but first I’m going to lift this massive gut of yours. I’m going to see if I can even find your cock. I’m—oh _fuck_ , that’s heavy!”

Hawke gave a startled laugh, hoisting Fenris’s belly. It _looked_ heavy, big and overflowing his hands, and Hawke’s biceps tightened as he leaned in and hefted it up. He pressed his shoulder against the highest part of it, keeping some of his apron of fat out of the way, one hand exploring down until calloused fingers could push up a loincloth and close around Fenris’s cock.

He _squeezed_ and Fenris gave a shout of pleasure.

“Look at that,” Hawke murmured, love in his eyes, _lust_ in his eyes, as he held Fenris’s fat gut out of the way and stroked his long-ignored cock. He shifted his own hips forward with the motion, rubbing his own straining erection against the give of Fenris’s body. “Look at how pretty you are like this—flushed and hot and at my mercy. Maker, Fenris, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I missed you so much.”

“I missed you,” Fenris managed to gasp, trying to thrust up into Hawke’s grip. It was exactly how he liked it, almost tight enough to hurt, and he was so keyed up by all the things Hawke had been saying that he was close enough. Watching his tits sway, seeing the color creep over his skin, feeling Hawke thrust into folds of fat was so strangely erotic that he was turned on and repulsed at the same time. He didn’t know how to react, so he just gave himself over to the sensation—huffing breaths and rippling body and aching need coursing through him.

Fenris came first, crying out and watching Hawke’s face intently as his seed painted his lover’s fingers and his own lower belly in hot stripes. It had been so long since he’d come that it was almost a religious experience, made all the better by Hawke being here—rocking against his bloated body, using him, thrusting against his gut and gasping into his own orgasm.

It seemed to hit Hawke hard, his body seizing up as another scalding hot jet streaked Fenris’s soft blubber. He sobbed in a breath at the feel, his own hands turning to cup the overflowing folds of his body, squeezing them tight as Hawke panted and half-collapsed over him.

_This morning, he was lost to me_ , Fenris thought, watching as Hawke collapsed down next to him—one arm flung over his bulk, hand gently squeezing and releasing his fat as if he still couldn’t believe it was all there. _Now, he is mine again._

With a grunt of effort—and a lot of rocking—Fenris managed to roll over onto his side. Hawke watched him as he struggled, visibly stunned by the effort it took. But he rubbed a hand along Fenris’s hip, fingers curling possessively over the fold of fat at his side.

“You are mine,” Fenris told him, cupping Hawke’s face. “If you want me to be thinner, I will break the cycle, I will lose weight, I will be thinner. But even this big, even the way I am now, you are mine, and you will always be mine.”

“Fenris, I don’t care if you’re _twice_ this size next year. Though if you are, we’re going to need to get a _much_ bigger bed, because you’re already at least four times or _more_ bigger than me, and I—” He yelped, laughing playfully when Fenris pinched him. “All right, fine. More seriously. I love you, I will always love you. I never expected to come home to find you so morbidly obese you got stuck in your own doorway, but you know, I’m pretty good at rolling with the punches. And you’re…”

“Do not,” Fenris warned, though he was laughing too.

Hawke’s grin just widened. “Pretty good at _rolling_ in general, am I right? Fenris? Fenris, don’t ignore me: I have so many fat jokes I plan on telling while I push up that gorgeously massive belly of yours and ride your cock into the sunset.”

“I take it back,” Fenris said, pushing his lover away before impulsively dragging him closer, against the mass of his bulk. “I don’t want you anymore.”

“Oh no, it’s too late,” Hawke said, mock-sadly. “I’m already drowning in your giant tits. There’s no going back now.” Then, pressing a sucking, wet kiss to the tightening nipple: “But seriously, Fenris, Isabela would weep with envy over how _huge_ your breasts have gotten. What’s the secret to getting them so round and soft? I bet she’d—”

The rest was lost on a muffled, wet laugh as Fenris grabbed the back of Hawke’s hair, tangling his fingers in springy black strands, and smothered him into the soft give of his cleavage.


End file.
